


Firebird: II. Lullaby

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens
Genre: America, Apocalypse, Art, Humor, M/M, NYC - Freeform, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-22
Updated: 2007-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firebird: II. Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is heavily artsy. Sadly, I am not an art expert, however many museums I delight in. Yes, it's true, I've read things online about art, instead. Horrible, I know, but there you are.

**Title:** Firebird: II. Lullaby  
 **Rating:** PG-13 (for American youths)  
 **Summary:** "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Author's Notes:** This chapter is heavily artsy. Sadly, I am not an art expert, however many museums I delight in. Yes, it's true, I've read things online about art, instead. Horrible, I know, but there you are.

 

 

Crowley wanted to die.

As neither of them was willing to venture American wine, Aziraphale instead asked of the peppy be-aproned waitress, "Could we perhaps see the, uh . . . carbonated nonalcoholic beverage . . . list?"

The demon sighed. He planted an image of what Aziraphale wanted in the girl's head.

"Oh, sure!" she spouted, suspiciously undeterred. "We've got Coke, Pepsi, Diet Coke, Sierra Mist, 7-Up, Diet Pepsi, Slice, Diet 7-UP, Cherry Coke, _Black_ Cherry Coke, Diet Black Cherry Coke, Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke, um, Iced Tea (Lemon and Raspberry), Root Beer, _Diet_ Root Beer—!"

"Oh that sounds lovely thank you," Aziraphale beamed hastily.

"'Kay!" She beamed back with exuberance. Crowley thought he threw up a little.

"Does that, ah, come in a bottle?"

". . . Yes!"

" _Oh_ ," the angel enunciated. "Well, in that case, some tea would be perfectly serviceable." He smiled his most polite, insincere restaurant smile. These smiles take a very particular, experienced patience to really pull off, and Aziraphale had mastered the art.

Crowley watched his disdain from across the table. Not averting his eyes*, he said, "Well, _I'll_ have root beer, anyway. Thanks." Alcohol really wasn't the wisest of ideas as it would undoubtedly necessitate sobering up, knowing them, and it wouldn't do to attract any extra attention, considering what they were doing here.

After the waitress had gone, Aziraphale turned to him, vaguely expectant.

"You know," said Crowley confidingly, "I don't think Americans are so hopelessly classless they wouldn't provide you with a _glass_."

"Hm." Aziraphale didn't buy it. "I was simply of a mind to have tea."

They became briefly engrossed in the gooey-looking muffins on the table, spreading butter and arranging and rearranging plates. The tables were close in the corner grill on Columbus, but it wasn't uncomfortable. And, even if it had been, they were used to ignoring humans. A reassuring roar of laughter from the bar upped the volume level enough for Crowley to feel comfortable with conversation again. "Young Warlock is certainly growing up," he observed softly.

" _Yes_." Aziraphale scooted forward, wiped his lips with his napkin. Ready for conversation. Crowley could interpret every move.

They only ever talked like this. _Over_ something, _at_ something.

Thank Someone.

"How old is he, now?" the angel asked. As if he didn't know, down to the day, even.

"Four." _—years, 329 days, fourteen hours **._

"Strange to think of the Antichrist having made it past the terrible threes."

Crowley frowned. "I thought it was the terrible twos."

"Oh, it's both, naturally. Depends on who you ask. Anyway." Aziraphale took a sip from his drink—he was disconcerted. "To all appearances, he seems remarkably well-behaved for an Antichrist."

 _He was . . ._ Crowley shoved a slew of encroaching, niggling worries out of his way and ploughed on. "Yeah, well, he might not be showing his true colours, yet. He's just a kid. Kids are always happy. Ignorance is bliss, and all that."

"Crowley. He's here _visiting_ his _relatives_."

 _Don't do it, don't do it, don't—_ "You're . . . you're right. He is acting strangely." That he could allow. "But do keep in mind, Aziraphale, that there isn't any real precedent for this, unless you want to count You-Know-Who, and you know I _don't_." He breathed for a moment. Out went the worrying thoughts. "Besides, isn't this what we wanted, anyway?" he wheedled. "Neutrality. It probably means your minions—"

"Aids."

"— _aids_ , right—that they're doing their job, yeah? See? It's all thanks to you that the kid's so agreeable. Problem solved."

Aziraphale shook his head and placed both elbows on the table, the better to gesture with. He would not be persuaded today. "No, Crowley. It's not just that. He's not shown any particular strengths, he just isn't acting how one would expe—oh, you've already deflected all of that. Just listen, Crowley. His mother told me—"

"Wait, you _talked_ to his mother? That goes a bit beyond overseeing his religious upbringing, don't you think?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, I hypnotised her—she did tell me, though, that Warlock is . . . well, that . . . that it would take too long to explain all the nuances to you. Here: I've read all of the prophecies out there, and you know it. _None_ of them fit. Nothing, Crowley."

"Have you ever considered that they're wrong? Sheesh."

"Well, yes, I have, but there is something to be said for simple irregularities . . . anything, really, just—and events from Revelations! There are no concrete similarities _there_ , and there would have to be, don't you agree?"

"There's nothing to worry about yet."

The angel just _knew_ that Crowley was lying to him about something. It was easy enough to see. If the demon wasn't lying to anyone else in the process of talking to Aziraphale, then he was lying to Aziraphale. Crowley had told him about the hospital, of course, and about the graveyard, and about the traffic on the way back to London, too. But there was something in the equation that he was reluctant to admit to. And this confidence of his—oh, Crowley was never _really_ confident—in all matters Antichrist Aziraphale didn't buy for a second. It could just be nerves, though, nervousness about what would happen if their little experiment was called abruptly to halt and the demon called abruptly home, such as it was.

The angel bit his tongue and let it slide. There _was_ time. Eleven years of life before that terribly _Something Else_ took over that child . . .

Their waitress had reappeared with their drinks. In front of Crowley she placed a brown bottle and a frosted mug.

Aziraphale regarded his own tall glass of iced tea. With a plastic straw.

Then he gazed mournfully in Crowley's direction.

"Say," said Crowley, pouring his Stewart's Root Beer*** with unnecessary flair, "I'm thinking maybe you should've specified about the tea, huh?"

The angel only cleared his throat and sipped a suddenly stronger label lemon iced tea. Only a little miracle . . .

"Apparently they're taking him to see national parks, next," he said. "The Grand Canyon. Yellowstone."

"He won't remember it later."

"All the same," Aziraphale said.

They cast around for safe conversation, but there was none to be had. Warlock, Armageddon, and Warlock and Armageddon rather overshadowed their usual bickering. Aziraphale tried anyway.

The waitress soon returned to take their orders. Through the course of removing plates and refilling glasses, she deduced that there was only one possible explanation for such an unlikely pair to be dining together—not that there was anything wrong with that—and when, eventually, she brought them dessert and the bill, she was all smiles. And eventually she removed them from her mind entirely.

Aziraphale generally ate without speech until he felt compelled to correct something, nodding and _mm_ -ing indulgently while Crowley carried doggedly on. Right now the demon was talking about some new project of his. Aziraphale didn't know what he hoped to accomplish in the remaining seven years of existence, but he wasn't about to dissuade him. And, anyway, interactive games for children sounded nice. ****

"Sounds lovely, my dear. Are you going to eat that?"

"Of course not." He hadn't bought dessert for himself in centuries.

Aziraphale's eyes lit up. He transferred the sundae from Crowley's place to his. The zeal with which he tucked into the ice cream was far from gluttonous, Crowley thought, watching in fascination. It was really closer to lust.

"So," he said, staring steadily at a spot on the table. "What d'you think would happen if They found out?"

"I don't really think that _will_ happen, Crowley, do you? I'd thought we were being very careful indeed . . ."

"Sure, sure. But what do you think They'd do?" His voice was soft instead of sly.

The angel finally looked up. "Why, have you any reason to suspect—?"

"I was merely speculating!"

Aziraphale set his spoon down, just so, which meant, _If you continue down this path, I'll be forced to logic you to dea—that is, inconvenient discorporation._

Crowley sighed. "Well, we've checked up on Warlock. Now what? He's here for another week."

Aziraphale deliberated. "I suppose we might as well take advantage of the cultural venue. We could see an opera or a musical theatre show—"

"Nah," Crowley broke in rather forcibly, "how about we check out a museum or something?"

 

 

*

* A.k.a., sunglasses.

** Okay, so he might've guesstimated the hours part.

*** A brand that is, it must be said, so delectable it's either heavenly or sinful or both. In any case, Aziraphale has definite grounds for covetousness.

**** _And_ like something Aziraphale could twist to his advantage, should Crowley's project go according to plan. In any case, Aziraphale didn't think young people were about to choose sitting before a television and some rather violent counsel over playing wholesome games outside in the fresh air, even if Aziraphale provided them with better counsel.

 

*

 

 

"Do you remember when humans like that used to be considered dignified?"

"Oh, I know. It's always astonishing to think that such outlandish clothing was considered high fashion. That people actually _wore_ it."

Crowley looked the angel up and down. "I quite agree."

Aziraphale didn't register his tone, though, he was so arrested by Thomas Gainsborough's _[The Mall in St. James's Park](http://i63.photobucket.com/albums/h143/htebazytook2/TheMallinStJamessPark-Gainsborough.jpg)_.

"It's really not so much different there, now," said Crowley. "All that's changed is the fashion. Take these women; they all hate each other. Same as now."

The angel squinted, leaning in to study the painting, his face close to the musty, but gleaming, frame. He looked cool and pale and strangely angelic in the dimly lit old house. Crowley thought he'd gone back in time, himself. This was how everybody used to look indoors, although sometimes there were unending, fascinating candle-flickers for futilely painting faces with. Now, electricity made everybody look perfect. He liked it for the most part, but it didn't suit Aziraphale.

"Mm," said Aziraphale. "We shall have to find a print of this one. I know just the place for it."

" _Shall_ we?"

In answer, the angel tugged him into another creaky room. A white room, tiny, and its walls were lavished with childhood scenes and Crowley swore he recognised youthful versions of the lovers on random vine-swings from a previous room. Tourists were tightly-packed—there was not much of a crowd on such a dreary day, but the museum was small in comparison to the others a few frigid fall blocks away. They had had to walk too many of those already before winding through the park. And so Crowley's proposal of the pristine, modern Guggenheim was out of the question. Where this collection was housed it was terribly, terribly dusty.

The angel fit here.

But Crowley had to say his favourite part of the whole experience was the name of the collection.

"Let's do the Frick, instead. How does that sound?"

"Um. This would . . . be another museum," Crowley had ventured. _And not some disturbing dance move?_

"Well, obviously, Crowley. The Frick it is, then. It's only two blocks down once we get out of the park."

 _Well, that's rather convenient for you, now, isn't it?_ he'd thought. Aziraphale _was_ the organised one.

Presently, they were in front of Vermeer's _[Girl Interrupted at her Music](http://i63.photobucket.com/albums/h143/htebazytook2/GirlInterruptedatherMusic-Vermeer.jpg)_.

Crowley couldn't account for Vermeer's magnetism—he hadn't known the man personally, and he couldn't very well ask now—but it was subtly, definitively there.

It had all begun with _[The Allegory of Faith](http://i63.photobucket.com/albums/h143/htebazytook2/tcr.jpg) _ , he supposed, and his wanting desperately to attach post-it notes to the painstakingly preserved oil: "If you think a stone block is all it takes to kill a demon, then you are sadly mistaken," or "The Garden was sorely lacking in shiny spheres, I'm afraid," or, if he was feeling particularly unhappy, "Only angels are capable of producing such blessed idiotic expressions. Although Eve did give them a run for their money."

He wondered if Vermeer had painted anything else like that, and if it were here. They'd be checking out the more religiously themed galleries, of course, but Crowley wasn't about to protest—truth be told, he found them as irresistible/lamentable as Aziraphale did, just for different reasons*.

"The real question is," said Aziraphale, "how is it that the artist draws us into the painting? The chair, possibly—it's as if we're being invited to sit."

They both stared importantly at the framed blobs of paint.

"No, it's 'Will she or won't she?'" Crowley studied the contents of the table. "Oh, yeah. He's got 'er now."

"I beg your pardon? That is obviously her _tutor_ , my dear."

"So what? _The Taming of the Shew_ , is what I always say. And, besides," he smirked, "he's got the demon drink on his side."

"You don't; you quote insults from it. But even so, she hasn't made any decision yet." He continued in a thoughtful voice, "She is obviously looking to us for guidance . . ."

"Well, fortunately we are godfathers, now, and can assist in such matters," Crowley taunted. "I say, go for it," he told the girl in the painting. "Put your money where your symbolism is. In fact, _his_ money would actually be the smarter move, and getting it up front's not a bad idea either. Well, not bad from a certain perspective."

Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley, dear, you're tempting a painting. I don't think it'll give in."

The demon turned on him. "She's feeling trapped. Window's closed, and all, see? What she really should do is get the hell away, I agree, but this might be a way out. Doing what's expected."

He blinked at the earnestness in Crowley voice. Confused, he repeated himself: "But I'm afraid you're still tempting in vain."

Crowley felt irrational frustration surge through him, and it pushed a thought out of his throat. "Maybe I should tempt you insstead?" He couldn't beat this impatience with Aziraphale—it always showed up eventually.

"Crowley . . . what? Just slow down. I'm still trying to take in the Vermeer . . ."

"Sslow down," he echoed. "I wish we could slow it down. Need more time to figure this out." He stared at his opposite number. "I think we might've sscrewed up with the boy, angel."

"Nonsense, Crowley. You said it yourself, we can't tell anything, yet." Aziraphale was looking a bit pale.

"I know, I know. But even if that does work, with Warlock, I don't believe for a minute _we're_ going to be off the hook"

Oh. "Still, though. We simply can't know that, yet. There's nothing more we can do, and there's no reason to be worrying about it. We've just got to focus on doing what we can."

"But . . . Well, yes. I supposse so." He sighed.

They were perfectly still for a full minute, both looking at the dusky wooden floor as if willing the earth below it to churn up some answers. Interruption came in the form of two teenagers who had been admiring the next painting over. Who had run into Crowley.

"Hey, watch it, kid," he snapped.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about that, man," said the boy derisively.

"Faggot," the other one sneered.

"Um." Blink. _Um._ He collected himself. "You'd best run along, children," he intimated as dangerously as demonically possible, "because I'm afraid you are unbelievably, cossmically misstaken."

There was a darkling pause.

"Jeah, 'cause fags never lissp like thiss, huh?"

It was then that Aziraphale stepped in with embarrassing chivalry. "Excuse me, my good man, but I'm not entirely sure what you're implying."

The good man rolled his eyes. His friend spoke up. "He means you're homos, dude."

Aziraphale stared. Crowley blinked again. His sunglasses were saying, 'This, naturally, is not happening.' They boys just gave him dirty looks. Crowley stuck out his tongue at them, menacingly.

"Dude, what the hell did you do to your tongue? Gross!"

He deadpanned at them in vain until the angel mercifully led him to the next gallery.

"Honestly, I don't know what two such infernal hoodlums could find of interest at the Frick . . . no offense, my dear."

"Um."

Crowley sulked. _Nobody_ made insinuations like that about _him_ , especially when Aziraphale was around. Crowley had always thought Aziraphale's, hm, personality rather overshadowed his in such matters. Or at least set off a nice contrast that threw Crowley in an attractive, ladies' man light. Not that _he_ was actually a ladies' man. Or a man at all, in point of fact.

He pulled himself together. This was silly.

"Well, it looks like the Apocalypse is upon us after all."

"Not quite."

This room had a window. Outside it had begun to rain and the already grayish city-world seemed to make that final step into absolute dreariness. Aziraphale looked at the clouds and imagined them raining down death and destruction with heavenly sunlight. How very inviting.

Where would they be, when all of this happened, anyway? Were they to nudge young Warlock forward from the sidelines and watch, crossing their fingers? Aziraphale found himself staring at a poor likeness of Christ painted in the 15th century and felt not at all comforted. He was so deeply afraid of the future that he didn't dare chance treading too closely to it in his thoughts. If he disturbed the fear, it might get loose, and this was a fear that made him sick to think about sidelong, let alone face, floating in front of him.

"Crowley . . ."

"What."

"Where do you . . . _what_ do you suppose we'll be doing when the Apocalypse really is at hand?"

"Well, that depends on how this all goes. I mean, maybe we'll have been recalled before it actually begins."

"I don't think that'll happen," said Aziraphale distantly. "I think that, either way, we'll be here, still, alongside the humans, enduring whatever they are."

"I." Crowley regarded him as though reassuring himself he was talking to the same old Aziraphale. "Actually? That makes a lot of sense." He seemed equally surprised at himself.

"So we had better get it right."

"Oh, yes."

"Yes."

"Still," said Crowley, "these past couple of thousand years have rather flown by. I mean, I had all but forgotten there even going to _be_ an Apocalypse."

". . . You do know what I do in my spare time, don't you? How many times have you been to my shop? It's filled with books of prophesy and—"

"Yeah, Bibles, I'm well aware. They used to make my eyes all itchy, you know. Don't any more, though," he reflected. "Same with you. Well, not with the itchy eyes, I mean. Just, you-know. You know what I mean."

Aziraphale considered. No, Crowley had not had filled his embarrassment quota for today; Aziraphale left him hanging.

"Well, I suppose we really should've seen it coming. Global warming and all that. I do wonder if they'll ever catch on that it _is_ happening . . ."

Crowley snorted, in his element again with cynicism. "Not much time to now, is there? And didn't we decide that it was humans' fault?"

"Oh, no. It was just Earth, actually."

"Was it? Huh. Wait—how the Starbucks do _you_ know?"

"My people sent me a memo a few decades ago. It just arrived the other day," Aziraphale explained. "Starbucks is yours?"

Crowley gave him a look over his sunglasses. _Now you're just pretending to be an idiot._

Aziraphale mimicked him. _Oh yes? Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, you—_ fiend _?_

Crowley sighed dismissively. He caught some unexplored little rooms out of the corner of his eye. "Come on," he said, placing a hand on the angel's back and guiding him there.

"There will probably be an increase in natural disasters—hurricanes and things of that nature. It will certainly look Apocalyptic," Aziraphale was babbling. "I'm surprised they haven't taken the hint."

"I'm not."

 

 

*

* Or so he thought: really the two of them tended to think alike on the subject. But there wouldn't be anything to talk about if they always took the same side in a conversation.

*


End file.
